


anchors

by justjoy



Series: once upon a timelord [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Pre Episode: s07e06 The Snowmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/justjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the Universe is so intent on ripping away each and every little thing that he has ever had... well, so be it. He is the Doctor in the TARDIS. He is a Time Lord. He needs no one.</p><p>This is what he tells himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anchors

**Author's Note:**

> Set after _The Angels Take Manhattan_ , right before _The Snowmen_ , but no real spoilers for either - it probably won't make quite as much sense if you haven't watched both, though.

It is ironic, bitterly so, that the only person who can keep him from drowning in the memories of the past, the only being in this universe and beyond to anchor him hard and fast to the firm land of the present is the one who has knowledge of his future.

But then again, it takes a capable individual to hold a Time Lord’s life in their mind without being swept away or driven insane, and much as he wishes otherwise on occasion, River Song was - _is_ , he corrects fiercely, allowing himself the raw vehemence in the space of his own mind - the perfect person for the job.

He stands, sets the reading glasses down on the console carefully, more tenderly than he has handled anything in his lives.

(And perhaps therein lay the problem, he had never been careful, never quite enough to stop this from happening, time and time and time again, a thousand wounds that bleed afresh every time a new one is added.

Well, no more.)

The TARDIS is dark around him, colours gleaming dully in the dim light.

He can hear her sometimes in the back of his head, that wonderful sound of the Time Rotor pared down to nothing but a soft, barely audible whirr. She is a traveller of time and space, after all, native and voyager of the Vortex, not meant to be stuck here with him, moving no further than the drift of a cloud.

(Not meant to be cutting through paradoxes caused by Weeping Angels and Roman Centurions, either, but he does not let himself think about that, because if he even eases the floodgates a little he will drown in those waters.)

 _I’m sorry, old girl,_ he apologises mentally, running a hand over the console. It warms just a little in response to his touch. _I’m so sorry._

The TARDIS shouldn’t be stuck here because of him, shouldn’t be tethered by the leash of his selfishness, but she’s all that he has left, and that feeling is mutual. He has come to know her better than he does the man in the mirror, felt her joy at sharing what little is left of their world, been swept away by her rush of exhilaration as they start off through the Vortex to yet another destination unknown -

But he will not do this anymore. He simply cannot.

(For all that he has lived for hundreds of years - more than a thousand now, he realises, and he can’t help but wonder where all that _time_ went, now that he can feel each second beating acute against his senses - he has not quite mastered the elusive art of picking up the pieces and moving on, as humans always seem so fond of saying.

Instead, he gets back into his blue box and starts running, flees the scene in time and space until he can go no further, then runs some more.)

The TARDIS doors swing open at his approach, metal hinges folding soundlessly inwards, and he steps out onto his cloud, superdense water vapour billowing about his feet, buffeted about helplessly by the wind and powerless to do anything against it.

He knows the feeling all too well.

Slowly, but with far less care, he crouches down near the edge of the cloud, close enough to look over yet far enough to be safe; he is depressed, he does realise that despite what Vastra clearly thinks, but he isn’t suicidal.

At least, not quite yet.

The lights of Victorian London flicker steadily on far below him, an universe that he has retired from, a world that he can care about no more.

This is what he tells himself.

( _Rule one, the Doctor lies,_ his own voice echoes hollowly back to him from a time long gone - and there they are again, the unending streams of memories that he ruthlessly dams as he has done so many times before, except this time it might be just that much less successful, wisps still creeping around the edges like the tendrils of the cloud at his feet.)

And if there is something in him that dies a little every time he sees those lights from such a distance, well, he does not let himself realise it, because he really - he just _cannot_ , and that is all there is to it.

(The Doctor still lies - as he always has, as he always will - but less and less now, because why bother? He certainly doesn’t believe anything he says himself, not now, not anymore.

What’s the point of lying if no one is around to hear it?)

**Author's Note:**

> This technically started out as a piece on River, but somehow mutated along the way to become the general angst!fest it is now, coupled with some rather unintentional experiments in a new writing style.


End file.
